


Restitution

by Ziggy_Scardust



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Grimmauld Place, Kingsley Shacklebolt is a good Minister, The Ministry is finally not so much a shambles, after the war, loose ends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-24 17:00:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21861352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ziggy_Scardust/pseuds/Ziggy_Scardust
Summary: After a prisoner is released from Azkaban, their personal effects on them at the time of their arrest are returned to them. No such courtesy is afforded to those who break out.
Relationships: Harry Potter & Sirius Black
Comments: 5
Kudos: 82





	1. Archives & Storage

There came a moment, maybe two months after the Battle, when the storm finally broke, at least for the Ministry. Some semblance of normal operations had finally been restored, most of the reparations and apologies backlogs had been cleared, and the acting Minister of Magic for once found time for a fifteen-minute tea break.

Kingsley sighed, setting down his quill after dispatching the latest round of updates to Ministry imprisonment protocol, and wondered how much more of this sort of work he could bring himself to wade through. The lists of those unjustly imprisoned under Thicknesse swam before his eyes, and he leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand across his face. He knew, all too well, what the effects of Azkaban could be, even on the innocent, and he hoped fervently that the internal investigation would be over soon. 

At this thought, something occurred to him. He had been assigning entry-level Ministry employees of all stripes to handle the more mundane tasks associated with discharging political prisoners (the Magical Law Enforcement Squad being simply too small to handle the volume of administrative work), but had not yet been himself to the rooms filled with stacks of folders and identical cardboard boxes of belongings. 

He sat up, suddenly, as an idea he’d formed months ago rose to the front of his mind. It had been - and still was - one of his lowest priorities, the situation being what it had been and still was. But it was only right, he thought to himself, it needed to be done, and for once, he could reasonably justify a fifteen-minute tea break. 

He took the rattling elevator down seven floors, down to the Archives and Storage area, wondering somewhere in his mind if the clerk would be suspicious if he retrieved Sirius Black’s personal effects. Then he reminded himself that Sirius had been publicly exonerated years ago, weeks after his death, and that he was Minister for Magic now anyway. 

He went to a dingy window in an area of the Ministry that was seeing more traffic now than ever before, where arguing Ministry officials and disgruntled civilians were crowded in a line. Kingsley stepped closer to the line, and a tall witch near the front turned to smile at him. 

Andromeda beckoned him closer, and Kingsley avoided meeting anyone’s eyes as he strode over to her. 

“Here, Kingsley,” she said. “You can go in front of me, this is a madhouse. How are you?”

“Fine, thanks,” he answered, running a hand over his head and scratching the back of his neck. “This is the first time I’ve managed even a tea break from work in the last two months. And you?”

He regretted asking the question almost as it escaped his lips; Andromeda’s family had been shattered by the war, no thanks to him. Her face tightened a bit, but then she managed a smile. 

“Well, you know, could be better,” she said, “but Teddy’s been such a dear. He’s actually been managing to change his eye colour now, whatever next?”

She laughed, and it may have been more strained than he would have liked to hear, but she was laughing, and the last time he had seen her he would not have believed she would ever laugh again. 

“So, why are you here?” she asked him. “Don’t you have trainees and interns and secretaries to fetch things from Archives and Storage when you need them?”

He shook his head no. “This one’s...personal,” he began, then remembered it was Andromeda he was speaking to. “I’m getting Sirius’ personal effects, from when he was arrested. For Harry. Legally, they’re his now.”

Andromeda’s face tightened again, but she agreed, somewhat stiffly, “Of course...it’s only right.”

“I can tell him you’d like a look, too,” he said, half-smiling at her.    
  


“He comes round often enough to see Teddy,” she shrugged, seeming to regain some of her composure. “I’ll tell him myself. Now go, get everything before all these people realize you’re here and start bombarding you with questions.”

He nodded gratefully at her, whispered his request to the clerk, and asked her to cover the label on the box when she brought it out. She nodded, and returned very quickly, covered in dust and sneezing, but holding a faded cardboard box with seventeen years’ worth of dust on it. 

Kingsley took it with a word of thanks, slipped out of a side door known only to the Ministry, and Disapparated a couple of miles north. 

He turned to his right, just as a heavy black door slid into view. The door still looked eerie, and dark in more ways than one. He went up the stairs, and banged the huge silver knocker several times, knowing it would be the screeches of Mrs. Black in response, rather than the knocker itself, that would alert anyone home. 

But Mrs. Black’s strangled yell was cut off abruptly, and the door flew open sooner than Kingsley had expected. Harry stood there, still in his pajamas, looking somewhat healthier than when last Kingsley had seen him, but still older than his years. In fact, the last time Kingsley had seen him, he had presented him with Sirius’ posthumous Order of Merlin. Harry had looked at the medal and informed him, as politely as he could, that Sirius would have told the Ministry to shove it up their arse. Kingsley privately agreed, and had instead given the medal to Mundungus, who had immediately pawned it. 

But this was different. These things belonged to Harry, now. Kingsley, not quite sure what to say, silently removed the charm concealing the label on the box, Vanished the dust on it, and held it out to Harry. 

“What’s this?” Harry’s look of confusion made it obvious that Kingsley would have to say  _ something _ . He swallowed.

“The Ministry keeps people’s personal effects that they have on them at the time they’re arrested,” he said calmly. “You get them back when you’re released. Obviously, you don’t get them back if you break out.”

Harry nodded slowly, staring at the label on the box. “Thanks,” he managed, still staring at the name. 

“They’re legally yours now. The Ministry shouldn’t have held them so long. I’m sorry.” His apology sounded weak, but Harry merely shrugged. 

“‘S’OK. You had much bigger things to worry about.”

“Too right,” muttered Kingsley.    
  


“D’you - d’you want to come in?” Harry gestured awkwardly at the dark hallway behind him. 

“No, thanks, Harry - I ought to be getting back,” he said, feeling guilty already about the pile of work that had doubtless accumulated in the time he had been gone. 

“OK. Thanks, Kingsley,” said Harry, meeting his eyes this time. 

Kingsley stepped out of the Fidelius Charm before Harry shut the door, and though he was now invisible, he still felt as if Harry was watching him. 


	2. Chapter 2

Harry shut the door slowly, not taking his eyes off the faded label on the lid of the box. 

_ Sirius Black _

_ Date of arrest: 02/11/1981 _

_ Date of imprisonment: 03/11/1981 _

The second date caught his eye just as Kingsley was leaving; Sirius had been sent to Azkaban on his birthday, imprisoned within a single day of his arrest. Harry made a mental note to ask Hermione and Kingsley about hiring a wizard solicitor; Kingsley had told him that Sirius had once been planning legal action against the Ministry once he was exonerated. 

But that was another matter, and he would need to approach Kingsley later. For now, it seemed the Ministry was at least in the position of making amends. He started to go down to the kitchen, still, despite their efforts, the most habitable room in the house, then abruptly changed his mind and started climbing the stairs. 

He stopped outside the room he’d been sleeping in, off and on, for the last two months, with the faded copperplate “Sirius” sign on the door. It was clean now, after the ransacking, and there were new sheets on the bed, but all efforts at removing the wall decor had failed. In the wardrobe, a few items of Sirius’ clothing remained, imbuing everything with a faint smell of peppermint and wet dog. 

Harry pushed open the door, set the box on the bed, and looked at it for a moment. He had never asked Sirius directly about the night his parents died, nor much about Sirius’ arrest. After hearing his bitterness in the Shack and in the cave in Hogsmeade, Harry had told himself that Sirius did not want to discuss it, but he found himself wondering if he, Harry, was not just as much afraid of the subject himself. He took a deep breath, then opened the box. 

Despite Kingsley’s removal of the outside dust, a great deal had also accumulated inside the box. Harry lifted out a studded black leather jacket, shook it out, then nearly dropped it in a coughing fit from the cloud of dust that went in every direction. He quickly grabbed his wand and siphoned away the dust as best as he could, then looked properly at the jacket. It was worn in places, and very reminiscent of the 1970s; he vaguely remembered Aunt Petunia shooing him and Dudley away from a punk rocker on the street who had worn a virtually identical jacket. He supposed it made sense, for a man who had owned an enchanted motorbike. Now that the dust was gone, it had a peppermint sort of smell similar to that of the old clothes in the wardrobe, but mixed with petrol and the distinct tang of cigarettes. 

On impulse, Harry put the jacket on. The sleeves were just slightly too short, and the jacket was slightly too big in the shoulders, but its weight felt warm around him. 

Underneath the jacket was a neatly folded faded t-shirt, also smelling of peppermint and cigarettes, with a stylized gold phoenix emblem on the front. Harry stared at it for a moment, wondering if that had been a reference to the Order, or just an ordinary Muggle t-shirt. Then he realized that nearly everyone who would know the answer was dead, and set the shirt aside. There was a pair of faded jeans underneath, these definitively Muggle, with rips at the knees and stains of black grease on them. He wondered somewhere if Sirius looking like a Muggle punk rocker had influenced the Ministry’s opinion of his guilt. It certainly would have in the Dursleys’ eyes; they would never have allowed someone dressed like that near the house. Nor the motorbike, even if it wasn’t flying.

Harry inspected the clothes more closely. Like the jacket, they appeared slightly too big for him; Sirius had been more than a head taller than him when he had been fifteen, and would likely still have been taller than him now. He supposed Mrs. Weasley would show him how to shrink them, even if he doubted she would approve.

He looked back in the box, and realized that the Ministry must have searched Sirius, and made him turn out every one of his pockets; the jumble of small objects in the bottom bore testament to that. He sifted through them with his fingers, pulling them out one by one. There was a knife, nearly identical to the one Sirius had given him three years previously. The knife, too, smelled of petrol, and there were traces of black grease in the joints where the different attachments folded out. Harry supposed Sirius must have used it on his motorbike. He pocketed it, thinking of the remains of the bike in the Weasleys’ chicken coop; maybe Arthur would use it. 

There was a packet of Muggle cigarettes in the box as well, whose contents had collapsed into dust in the interceding seventeen years. Harry hurriedly closed the packet so as not to scatter tobacco dust all over the bed, and set it on the side table. He had never seen Sirius smoke, even in the old photos. He must have given it up; Azkaban surely did not supply prisoners with cigarettes.

There was a worn dragon-hide wallet sitting in the jumble of bits and pieces, and though it was made of dragon hide, it was stitched together in a Muggle style, as if meant to hold paper money and credit cards rather than Galleons and Sickles. Again, Harry wondered if Sirius had used Muggle clothes and accessories to spite his family, or if it had merely been a question of blending in on the street; he had never asked, though Sirius had worn Muggle clothing almost exclusively during the times Harry had seen him at Grimmauld Place, much to Mrs. Black’s displeasure. 

He opened the wallet. There were no banknotes in it, but a few loose coins rolled out, including a couple of shillings like those in Mr. Weasley’s coin collection, but that Harry had never seen used in his life. There were no bank cards, either - Sirius had likely not gone so far as to open a Muggle bank account - but a few corners of paper stuck out of the card pockets. He slipped them out, and his breath caught in his throat. 

The handful of photos looked to be about half wizard, half Muggle. The topmost photo, a wizarding one, was the one that had caught his eye, as he saw his own father, probably the same age as he, Harry, was now, laughing up at him in a photo of James, Sirius, Remus and Peter, sat at the bar in a very familiar pub. Harry looked more closely, and saw the dirty windows and sputtering candles of the Hog’s Head. Harry turned over the photo, and on the back, in handwriting he recognized as his mother’s, he read “July 1978”. Twenty years ago, perhaps to the day, and everyone in the picture was now gone. He wondered if Lily had taken the picture, as she and James had to have been together by then - the date on their wedding photo had been in 1979. Voldemort had been on the rise, then, already, but from the laughing faces of the boys in the picture, it hardly appeared that they had anything to fear. 

Harry stared at his father’s carefree face, and Sirius’, and Lupin’s, for a few moments, before excitedly shuffling through the photos to look at the next one. The next one was a Muggle photograph, and this time Harry was sure it had been his mother behind the camera, because in the frozen photo, James and Sirius were again laughing, both dressed in elegant dress robes, holding glasses of champagne, obviously at Harry’s parents’ wedding. Harry smiled at this for a moment; the only wedding photos he had ever seen had been the staged ones, and though his parents’ happiness was still genuine in those, this one, somehow, felt more real. He eagerly flipped over the photo to reveal the next, a wizarding photo again, this one much older than the others, the edges frayed, the tint yellowed. It featured a tall, venerable-looking witch in a sari, a few silver threads showing through her dark hair, standing next to her husband, a thin man with untidy black hair - very untidy black hair. They looked stern, but as Harry gazed at the photo, he saw a humorous smile lurking around both of their mouths. His mouth opened for a moment, and he turned over the photo, hoping for some confirmation, hoping he was right - 

_ Fleamont & Euphemia Potter, upon their arrival in England from Bombay, 1955 _

He flipped the photo back over, just to look one more time at his grandparents’ faces. The last person who had known them had been Sirius, and Sirius had lit up when he explained how they had taken him in, and treated him like a son, and how sorry he was that they had died before Harry could meet them. But there had been no pictures, not even in any of Sirius’ things that Remus had kept, and Harry had wondered what they looked like, and if they looked like him, because he looked nothing like the photos of Aunt Petunia and Lily’s parents hanging in the Dursley house. It had been Sirius who had told him that his grandparents had met when his grandfather was travelling in India, and that they had married there, with her family. It must have been his grandmother, then, who wrote the second inscription on the back of the photo, in a language that Harry could not read. Perhaps, if they had lived, or his father had lived, he might be able to read it; he made a mental note to ask Parvati if she could.

He set this photo down, and picked up the last one. This one was a Muggle Polaroid, and it bore no date or inscription; for a moment, Harry thought he saw it move, but as quickly as the illusion had come, it was gone, and the picture froze in time once more. It showed a much younger Sirius, his face smooth and untroubled, more relaxed than Harry had ever seen him in life, stretched out across a sofa that was entirely too short to accommodate his full height. His feet extended out past one arm of the sofa, and a pair of heavy black boots lay on the floor as if they had been kicked off. Sirius was fast asleep, and Harry recognized himself, no more than seven or eight months old, equally fast asleep on Sirius’ chest. Sirius had one hand on Harry’s back, as if to prevent him from slipping off, and Harry looked at his own face as a baby, looking calm and contented and utterly at peace, without a scar on his forehead. This, then, must have been the house at Godric’s Hollow, and one of his parents must have taken the picture. He began scouring the photo for more details, trying to build an image in his mind of his life with his parents. There was a cat in the picture; it was sniffing at Sirius’ other hand, which trailed on the floor down the side of the sofa. The sofa was tiny, and the room itself seemed small. The window in the room must have faced east, because it appeared that the pale morning sun was shining directly on their faces. There was a small end table with a lamp on it, and a mantelpiece behind the sofa, with a somewhat ugly green vase set on it - that must have been the gift from Petunia Lily had mentioned. 

And Sirius had been there. He must have looked after Harry often, when he was a baby, or else Harry could not possibly sleep so contentedly on his godfather’s chest. He had no memory of this, any more than he could remember living with his parents. His throat ached; he remembered Sirius offering him a home, the very first night that they had met, and Sirius’ expression when Harry had accepted. The full weight of what Sirius had been offering seemed to hit him, now that he could see exactly what he had lost, first when his parents died, then his godfather. 

He had spent a good portion of the last year being confronted with the loss of the life he might have had with his parents, but it had never occurred to him that he had lost another life, again, when he had lost Sirius. Sirius had invited him to live with him in earnest, that was certain, but Harry had not had time to think about the real implications of that before that dream had disappeared with Wormtail. 

Now, though - he realized, more fully than he had before, that Sirius knew exactly what he was offering Harry, had been ready to do so likely since Harry’s birth. He had wanted to take him when his parents had died, he remembered, but Hagrid refused, citing Dumbledore’s orders. And he had asked Harry, again, nearly as soon as they met, that night in the Shack. He wondered, if Sirius had been exonerated in life, if he would have been able to live with him, or if Dumbledore would have prevented it. 

Certainly Sirius would not have been an exemplary guardian - Harry could admit that much to himself - but the mere fact that he had actually cared about Harry would have put him miles above the Dursleys in any estimation. 

Harry abruptly realized he had been staring at the picture of himself and Sirius in his parents’ house for a full five minutes. He set the picture down, looking back at the label on the box. His mind was still spinning with the full appreciation of what the Wizengamot had cost him, seventeen years ago. A few ideas began to form in his mind, and he started hunting through the mess of the room for his two-way mirror.


	3. Out of the Box

Ron and Hermione turned up at Grimmauld Place, thirty minutes later, breathless and windswept, smelling strongly of disinfectant and spearmint.

“Harry, what’s up?” Ron asked, looking keenly at Harry as he let them in. “We can’t stay long, we’re helping the Grangers set up their new dentistry office.”

“Your cloaks, sir and miss?” croaked Kreacher, scurrying into the front corridor with his arms outstretched. 

“We aren’t wearing any, but thanks anyway, Kreacher,” Hermione answered. 

“Could we possibly have a cup of tea, please, Kreacher?” Ron asked. The elf bowed deeply and disappeared as Harry beckoned them down to the kitchen.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said, as they descended the stairs. “Kingsley brought over a box of Sirius’ things -“

“Why’d he have any of his things?” asked Hermione curiously.

“The Ministry keeps everything you’ve got on you when you’re arrested, and only gives your things back when you’re released,” shrugged Ron. “Dad says they’ve never cleared out the archives, though, so they’ve just got loads and loads of boxes building up in there, even for people who died in Azkaban.”

Hermione looked shocked; Harry nodded at Ron. “Apparently, legally, they’re mine now, seeing as he was publicly exonerated and I was his heir. Obviously, the Ministry’s in a mood to make amends right now -“

“-they’d better be-“ muttered Ron.

“- and I remembered Kingsley said Sirius was thinking of pursuing legal action against the Ministry.”

Ron looked stunned; Hermione, however, merely looked saddened.

“Oh, Harry,” she said gently. “He meant to, I heard him talking about it. But he was only planning to do it to petition for custody of you once his name was cleared. After he heard about the Dursleys, he was saying the best way to get around Dumbledore so you wouldn’t have to live there would be to go through the courts, because legally the Dursleys had no claim to you and neither did Dumbledore.”

“Like they’d ever claim me,” muttered Harry bitterly. He looked down at the table; there was a burning in the corner of his eyes. 

It made sense; Sirius wouldn’t have been after compensation from the Ministry, and even public humiliation of the authorities wouldn’t have been enough for Sirius to have been planning to bring a suit. He could have lived here, or with Sirius somewhere else, at least until he was seventeen. He rubbed a fist across his face, trying to look as though he was merely scratching an itch, still looking down at the table. 

“Listen,” said Ron, and Harry looked up, surprised; he had been expecting Hermione to say something first.

“Harry, mate - just because he never got to bring a suit against the Ministry doesn’t mean you can’t. I know, I know, it’s not about gold” - for Harry had started to protest - “but Sirius would have loved to have seen the Ministry embarrassed like that. It’ll be really public if it’s you holding them accountable, and after that no one will have any doubts about Sirius’ innocence. And they’ll probably never convict anyone without a trial again.”

Hermione looked at Ron in admiration.

“ _ Brilliant,” _ she breathed. “Of course, if Harry brings it up, they’ll  _ have _ to make a law against it, not just promising not to do it again like they have been. I asked Kingsley, passing a new law takes ages, but a lot of public pressure would force it. It’s an obvious law, anyway.”

“But - Kingsley - I don’t really want to embarrass him,” said Harry, realizing the flaw in this plan now.

“Have him as one of your witnesses to Sirius’ wrongful imprisonment and his and your personal injury,” answered Hermione, waving an airy hand. Ron looked at her.

“Fine, maybe I’ve been spending too much time at the Ministry with Percy and Kingsley,” she sighed, “but you’ve got to admit that would be pretty compelling.”

“That’s really good, actually,” conceded Harry. “I don’t even know who’s still on the Wizengamot from that time, though.”

“Oh, the Wizengamot hasn’t changed much in years,” interjected Ron with a small laugh. “Except for Umbridge, Fudge and Amelia Bones, most of the people sitting have been for the better part of fifty years. Dad’s always frustrated he can’t get more Muggle-baiting cases past them.”

“ _ Fifty _ years?” asked Hermione incredulously. 

“Well, maybe I exaggerated a bit,” shrugged Ron, “but I bet there are still loads of them left from when Sirius was sent to Azkaban. He probably appeared for sentencing, even if he didn’t get a trial.”

“I suppose Griselda Marchbanks and Tiberius Ogden have been reinstated,” said Hermione thoughtfully, “and they’re both around ninety, I think.”

“And the Selwyns lost their seats,” nodded Ron. “Percy said they were the most influential of the anti-Muggle faction. Should make things a bit easier.”

“Right,” said Harry, his brain turning. “Er, Hermione, could I borrow one of your books on magical law?  



	4. Court Attire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry eventually does take his case to the Ministry, and decides to make a point about how the Wizengamot treated Sirius.

“The Wizengamot is called to order,” rapped a tall witch with white hair whom Harry recognized from his previous trial; evidently, she had been one of the top officials at the time.

“Harry James Potter, you are invited to make an opening statement,” she said, beckoning him from the entrance to a pulpit in front of the dais upon which they stood.

Harry stepped in front of the eyes of seventy-odd elderly witches and wizards, and heard a few whispers.

“Is he wearing  _ Muggle _ clothing?”

“Not just Muggle - he looks like one of those young lunatics on the broomstick machines, the whaddycallems, motorbikes.”

“Yes, the puck rockers or some such -“

“He looks like  _ Black _ ,” added another.

“Yeah, he does,” came another whisper. “Same sort of Muggle clothes and everything. And now his hair’s longer as well.”

“Maybe he’s trying to make a point, seeing what this is all about.”

“I don’t know what the problem is, Black was exonerated years ago, and it’s hardly respectful to turn up looking like  _ that.” _

“I heard he came to his last hearing in Muggle clothes as well.”

“Oh, come now, he was only a kid then. Still, just because he’s Harry Potter doesn’t mean he should be appearing in court dressed like a Muggle lunatic.”

“I could have sworn Black had the same phoenix on his t-shirt that day -“

“Quiet,” called the tall witch, banging on her gavel. “Mr. Potter, you may proceed.”

Harry gave a small smile to the wizard nearest him, who had not bothered to keep his voice down, and spoke quietly to him, so he wouldn’t be heard by the rest of the room. 

“Suppose no one took Black seriously either when he was wearing these clothes, hm?”

The wizard’s eyebrows rose halfway up his forehead as he scanned Harry from head to toe. Harry winked at him as he drew out his notes from the pocket of the jacket. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a short one to end on, but I like to think of Harry, Ron and Hermione starting to shake things up with the Ministry establishment after the war was over and there was so much left to rebuild. Maybe I'll write another in that vein, who knows?
> 
> I also tend to think of Harry as someone who represents Sirius in the next generation - the conventional wisdom is that he represents James, but I don't think so. He and Sirius were both mistreated by their families, ran away from home, and found their true family in a respected, established wizarding family who took them in as their own. Plus, neither of them can possibly trust that anyone else will protect people they love and therefore spend half their time recklessly risking their lives for others. 
> 
> And it would have made Sirius so proud for Harry to have turned up in court to bring a suit against the Ministry wearing his old leather jacket.


End file.
